I hate my birthday.

I hate my birthday. I hate cake. I hate songs. I hate attention. I hate people coming to my house and giving me things I don't want. I hate the expectation of feeling different just because I've survived another year. And most of all, I hate people trying to convince me to like my birthday.

If it were up to me, I'd sleep the whole day away. I'd miss my birthday, and the world would not acknowledge it.

Unfortunately, today IS my birthday. I'm 73 today. As I look in the mirror, I see no change. My hair has been grey almost as long as I can remember. My skin is pockmarked and wrinkly as always. I feel no change, except that I'm a little grumpier because it's my birthday. The looming dread of family coming around later and expecting entertainment suddenly fills my mind. My cat purrs and slinks between my legs. A reminder of another unwanted gift.

She follows me as I walk to the kitchen to make what I always do. Toast and jam. I won't be caught changing my routine for my birthday. Some people call me stubborn for not accepting that I'm aging. They've got it wrong. I know that I'm aging. I bring on the fact that I'm going to die someday. I'm stubborn because why do we have to celebrate it? Why is it such a big deal? Why am I supposed to be excited about it? It's no great feat that I've made it another rotation around the sun. If it's my "big day", I choose to be miserable about it.

I spend the day doing my usual routine: letting the cat out, doing chores, watching TV, then going for an afternoon walk.

Occasionally, I'm interrupted by the buzz of my phone. Group chats are going crazy with everyone sending a GIF or a meme or a message with three party emojis. It puts me in a worse mood. I refuse to say thank you and rather just ignore them. The cat gets spooked every time a notification comes through, putting her on edge. I stroke her back to calm her down, her black fur covering my pants and couch.

My daughter wishes me privately with a text that says, "Happy birthday, Ma. I'll bring the kids around at 6pm to come say hi. Bringing cake!"

"Ugh. How can my own daughter not know that I hate cake?" I ask the cat. She doesn't respond; instead, looking at me curiously.

I sit around all day, ruminating on just how horribly my "party" could go.

When the time finally comes for my daughter and her three riled-up boys to arrive, I shuffle to the door.

"Happy birthday, Grandma!" they scream, jumping on me with sticky fingers. My daughter hugs me tightly, squishing all remaining air out of my body.

"I've missed you so much," she whispers in my ear during the embrace. Despite myself, I smile.

Everyone tumbles into my apartment, filling the silent space with laughter and excitement. I turn off the radio, once a means to keep me company, which is now too loud amongst the chatter.

"Arriving right when the cat needs to eat and disturbing her peace," I complain.

"She doesn't seem to mind," my daughter laughs. The cat has betrayed me, enjoying playing with the boys already.

My daughter sets down a box, but it's not cake-sized.

I ask her, "Where's the cake?"

"Oh, Ma! As if you would eat cake." She opens the box to reveal my favourite pizza- pepperoni and mushrooms.

"It's from Julio's," she remarks, with a sly look on her face. I think to myself that maybe she does know me better than I thought. I try not to show it, though.

"Well, it took you long enough to get here. It's already 6:30. I'm starving."

She shakes her head as we all sit down to eat the deliciously greasy pizzas. The kids settle down at the table, surprising me with their good behaviour.

They chatter on about preschool troubles and which monster trucks are the coolest. I just listen, finally content among my family. They don't sing or mention my birthday. We spend time with each other, just being.

Once the boys start to get restless at the table, we move to the living room and I turn on the TV. The kids' channel has their favourite program on. They spread out on the carpet in front of me, along with the cat.

My daughter and I sit and talk softly on the couch behind them.

I pucker up the courage to ask an honest question. "Why haven't I seen you guys in such a long time?"

She sighs and sits up a bit straighter.

"Ma, you never call or text. You never show interest in our lives. Yet when we're together it feels normal, fun even."

I say, "You don't call or text anymore either."

"I'd given up on trying. You always make excuses not to see us, and it's difficult sometimes to coordinate everything with the kids."

I reflect, thinking about being a mom myself.

"I'm sorry that I haven't tried harder, Ma. I want to. I really, really do. Your birthday felt like a good opportunity to start over and to reach out."

I nod.

The boys let out a huge yawn, and I notice the youngest has fallen asleep.

"Oh, I guess that's our cue to go then." She gently picks him up as he melts naturally into the curves and creases of her arms.

"Let's go, boys," she whispers.

We walk to the door together, and I feel a pang of sadness to see them go. I kiss each boy on the head, and then my daughter on the cheek.

"Good night, kids. Get home safe."

"I love you too," she says back with a wink.

I watch as they go down the stairs. I close the door and turn around to find the mess of dirty plates and pizza boxes on the table, cushions on the carpet in front of the TV, and the kids' program shining brightly coloured light over the apartment.

I tear up, shocking myself. I don't want to clean up the remnants of this perfect night. This perfect birthday. So I lay on the couch -with the cat in my lap- and replay every moment of the ones dearest to me. I recognise how lucky I am to have these people who know me.

I drift away into sleep, thinking that maybe my birthday is not so bad after all.